


Muscle Memory

by springbok7



Series: An Assortment of Teas and Biscuits [17]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: #TeamRasa, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:01:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7
Summary: His body reacted, muscle memory spinning him around as the knife flashed in his picture-perfect hold.





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tsuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuyu/gifts), [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts), [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts).



> Thank you to [Tsuyu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuyu) for sweet-talking [Boffin1710](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710) into such a fabulous picture. It spawned not one but two bunnies. This is the one that sprang from somewhere deep in my brain. The other, prompted by [Tsuyu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuyu), can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728169).
> 
> Because angst is a gift that needs to be shared! ♥ Go, Team Angst! ♥
> 
> Unbeta-ed. All errors and typos are mine. Please feel free to let me know if you spot any and/or feel there should be additional tags. I welcome constructive criticism, but neither support or feed trolls.
> 
>    
>  _I do not own these characters. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this piece of fan-fiction._

 

The rain pounded against the windowpane, flooding down the glass in a torrent of grey.  The fat drops were long past the point of beating a staccato tattoo, too many hitting all at once to be able to hear the individual impacts.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and crackled overhead as sharp as gunshots, vibrating the sturdy walls and the cutlery in the drawers.

Q stared at the window, but neither saw the glass nor the grey liquid beyond.  

His hands were wet with a different liquid.

#8C001A.  Burgundy.

Possibly #B52735. Tall poppy.

Might even be #AA0114. Bright red.

But not #830303. 

Not blood red.

If he didn’t look at it, he could pretend it was any other colour at all.

He tightened his grip, pressing against the wound, trying desperately to staunch the liquid flooding out across the cold tile.

The liquid beating against the window was common, plentiful, abundant. But this liquid? This viscous tide was precious beyond words, every last drop that seeped between his fingers had been loved and wanted and was not where it was supposed to be.

The booming thunder rolled over his words as he held on but he neither paused nor even seemed to notice it as he pleaded with Eve on the mobile, to call Alec, to come quickly, to send someone, to do  _ something _ .

Because Q?  The almighty Quartermaster of MI6?  Arguably one of the most powerful hackers in the world?  That Q was helpless to do anything but kneel there on that cold, cold tile, and hang on for dear life.

Hang on to the dearest life of all.

And it was all his fault.

Every single drop that spilled forth was  _ his fault _ .

It had been his own idea.

Alec had been teasing him about his ‘sloppy defense tactics’ after Q’d lost a bet and was attempting to provide some semblance of a sparring partner to Eve.

He was a boffin, not a bloody martial arts expert, fuck you very much!

And for whatever reason -- idiotic minions, bull-headed Double Os, who the fuck knew anymore -- he’d been in rather less of a joking mood that day, and had finally rounded on Alec.

“Fine then, you fucking lazy fucknugget wanker! Fucking teach me!”

After they’d got over the utter shock of hearing such words from the usually extremely unflappable and professional Quartermaster, the two Double Os had done exactly that.

They started slow -- the basics, tumbling, how to fall, how to escape holds, how to get away -- and then when Q showed a surprising ability to pick things up, they progressed.

Months of training.

It became a “thing,” not exactly a “date night” thing, but more a “we have energy to burn so let’s spar” kind of a thing. 

Because Q was good.  If his life had taken a turn or two differently, he’d have been right at home on the agent end of the Handler-Agent conversation.

Alec and James -- and Eve too -- had been immensely proud of their boffin.

Not around Q of course, but they were given to bragging about him to the other Double Os.  And Mallory. And anyone else who would listen.

He’d already been a crack shot with a gun -- “Who the hell do you think tests the equipment you wankers destroy in the field?” -- and adding other weaponry became part of the “game” as well.

Staves or sticks or wooden spoons.  Because there are  _ always  _ wooden things lying around.

And then knives.  Because a knife can be hidden, squirreled away in the littlest of places, ready to be pulled out as needed.

And knives could be made from a staggeringly varied assortment of materials.

Some that did not include metal that would show up on the airport scanners.

Those were Alec’s favourites.

He’d hand-made a special sheath for Q, one that housed the undetectable knife Q had made himself even as he’d made a set for Alec and James, and Eve as well.

Q wore that sheath, and that knife, always.

One can never be too careful.  Silva proved that point.

James and Alec, and Eve, would give him ‘pop quizzes’ as the Americans called them.

Sneaking up on him in the middle of Q-branch.

Popping out of an alley on the way back to the flat.

On the way to the gym.

Or to the shops.

Or the toilets.  The canteen. The labs.

It had eventually ceased to be a test of Q’s reflexes and evolved into a running joke, to see who could ‘score points’ for the most ridiculous location.

Those reflexes were as honed from that game as the Double Os.  A fact about which they were just as ridiculously proud.

And when they weren’t testing and teasing?  Scuffing feet. Tapping knuckles. Series of codes to let him know they were there.  Let him know to stand down.

But on this day ...

On this day, the thunder shrouded the sound of the door banging shut

The rain pounding against window and roof and the ancient brick of the building muffled the footsteps approaching Q as he tinkered with a piece of tech.

A movement in the corner of his eye, or a shadow falling ...

And before his fantastic brain had identified the shape, or even registered the presence, his body reacted, muscle memory spinning him around as the knife flashed in his picture-perfect hold.

The razor edge slicing through skin and muscle.

Parting flesh like silk -- like fangs ripping open the jugular of prey -- the blood flowed.

James stumbled back in surprise, hand instinctively lifting to staunch the flood before he tripped over a box of tech and crashed to the floor.

The crack as his head hit the tile jolted Q from his frozen horror.

Leaping forward to apply pressure.

Fumbling out his phone to call Eve.

Something.

_ Anything  _ to slow that seeping, searing flood.

“Eve, please hurry ...”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or clicking that kudos button if you liked this ♥


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